by Fiona Quinn
Now, if the FBI’s interest would ultimately keep her safe, then I was all for it.
Besides the lecture that Dr. Gupta provided to help me lay a better foundation for my own background story, nothing was shared.
Not unusual.
Just unsatisfying.
Yup, I needed to make sure there was a plan in place for keeping Destiny safe. And I’d ask some pointed questions about my own safety if I were living with her.
Forewarned is forearmed.
It could wait for Monday, though. I spat out the toothpaste foam and rewetted my brush to take another pass as I scrutinized myself in the mirror. My fatigue was reflected back at me, along with the bruise that was entering into the violet and lime color spectrum.
Some theater makeup would help.
Maybe some eyedrops to clear the red…
I spat out the last of the toothpaste, rinsed with water, then opened the medicine cabinet to grab some mouthwash.
When I did, my pack of birth control fell into the sink.
I picked it up and stared at it. Every single pill in the pack was still cuddled into the little plastic blisters encased by the foil backing.
Every. Single. One.
I checked the date to see if this was for next month. But no. It wasn’t. I hadn’t been taking my pills.
I grabbed my phone and checked the date. I should get my period in two more days.
Okay, the chances that I got pregnant while I was playing the canvas and Striker was painting The Garden of Eden was just about zilch.
I rubbed the knuckle of my index finger between my brows, trying to self-soothe so I could think clearly. Striker had been down range much of the last two weeks.
Had I gotten pregnant without discussing it with Striker first?
It felt calamitous to have been this absent-minded.
Okay, first things first, I told myself as I shoved my phone into my back pocket and scrambled down the stairs, grabbed my car keys, and leaped down to the sidewalk.
Reaper was just getting home, and I brushed past him with a hand up in the air that I hoped signaled, “Hey, how are you?” and “Sorry, I’m in a rush” at the same time.
I calmed my system as I started the engine, stalling to take a deep breath so that others would be safe around me when I drove—a quick trip to the pharmacy. Grab a box of PlanB and an early detection pregnancy test. Get home and pee.
There was no point in freaking out until I knew there was a reason to freak out— Wow, it was possible that I had just had a fight with three steel-toed gang bangers when I should have been protecting my child.
As I thought that, cold sweat slicked my skin.
Holy moly, what had I done?
Still no reason to freak.
Pharmacy. Home. Pee.
I could do this.
As I sat impatiently drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to turn green, I decided that either way, I needed a GYN appointment. If I was pregnant, to do whatever it was that pregnant women were supposed to do, vitamins or something.
And if I wasn’t pregnant—oh please, please, please, don’t let me be pregnant without talking to Striker, to begin with, and making a plan.
I meant, if I was pregnant and it was a total accident, the pill failed as it can do, Striker would be a thousand percent supportive of me,
But this wasn’t a mistake.
This was me failing to live up to our agreement that I would take the pill, and we would stay baby-free for the first five years of our marriage.
Of course, at the time, we thought that our wedding was taking place last month.
It was all called off because the CIA failed me.
Yup, now that I thought about it, our wedding date was the time when I stopped taking the pill.
Self-sabotage?
I was about to find out.
***
“Hey there, what did you get?” I asked.
Striker set a bag of groceries on my kitchen counter, where I was mixing up a bowl of sugar cookie batter for the kids to decorate.
I’d cleaned up the art supplies after yesterday’s fun.
It would be weird to watch the kids' finger painting after the whole me as a canvas sex thing.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watched as Striker pulled out a jug of milk. A poem my mom loved pressed forward, grabbing my attention. Pay attention.
“...tomorrow before brunch?” Striker paused.
“What?” I sent him a knitted brow. “I’m sorry, I was somewhere else and missed that. What were you saying?”
“I was asking if you have to go in to work in the morning before the neighborhood parents come over for brunch.”
“Oh. No. No, I have the afternoon shift. Then I’ll spend tomorrow night over at Destiny’s apartment. We’re going to be roommates.”
“Good job. How are you explaining that you aren’t sleeping there tonight?”
“I told Destiny that I wanted to see the ocean. I’ve never put my foot in salt water before. I’m heading to the beach to sleep in my car at a campsite. I asked her if she wanted to come, but I knew she was on the schedule for the breakfast run.”
“How’d she respond to your plans? Any sign of distrust?”
“She asked me if it was a good idea to sleep in my car. Other than that, she seemed happy for me that I was going to get to cross something off my bucket list.”
“I prefer it when you’re sleeping in my arms rather than the floor in some low-rent apartment.”
“Duty calls.”
“What were you thinking about just then?”
“When?”
“When you didn’t hear me talking to you.”
“Oh. You know, just before Spyder called to let me know that the FBI would reach out, I was having a very long, very physically strenuous dream about rowing a boat.”
“I remember.”
“It reminded me of one of the poems that Mom took comfort in. It’s by Kahlil Gibran. Mom and I both found richness in his poems.”
“Yes…”
“This one—I think I’m remembering it because of the water theme of that dream. It’s called “Fear,” and part of it goes: ‘It is said that before entering the sea/a river trembles with fear./She looks back at the path she has traveled,/from the peaks of the mountains,/the long winding road crossing forests and villages./And in front of her,/she sees an ocean so vast,/that to enter there seems nothing more than to disappear forever./But there is no other way./The river cannot go back./Nobody can go back./To go back is impossible in existence.’”
“As Spyder would say, ‘Now apply that to your present situation.’”
I snorted and put my wrist to my mouth. “Oh my god, he would say exactly that, wouldn’t he? Uhm, let’s see. I told you that I felt my parents.” I waggled my hand over my right shoulder.
“Still?”
“Yes. And when I think about them, memories bubble up. Most all of the things I’m remembering are from the time when my dad died, not my mom. With this being her birthday week, I would think I’d have more Mom memories. It’s a bit surprising… Curious.”
Striker crossed his arms over his chest and leaned into the counter, focused intently.
“Perhaps because around my dad’s death, I have a lot of self-recriminations.”
“But why?”
“Like, did my actions or inactions at my father’s death—did I cause his death? I think that was one of the reasons I was so gung-ho to join the rescue squad and learn everything I could to protect my mom. And not make any mistakes. I lost one parent by my not having the advanced knowledge that I needed.”
“Wait. You think you were part of the reason your dad died?”
“I bet every loved one has similar thoughts, even if they flit in and flit out—did I do enough? Did I do too much? Did I add to their suffering?”
“Survivor’s guilt. I experienced that when missions went sideways when I was still with the Navy.”
�
��You know, I once heard a woman speaking about being in a car accident with her husband. He died on the scene, and she emerged without a scratch or a bruise. And she could not let go of the guilt. Before the accident, she had just reached for his hand and had laced their fingers. Had she not reached for him, would both hands on the steering wheel have made a difference? Who knows? This woman was absorbed by the fact that she must have been left alive for a specific purpose. It was driving her nuts.”
“Was she able to get psychological help?”
“Medical help. She donated a kidney and saved a young girl’s life. Saved that child’s family from grief. As soon as her kidney was gone, the survivor thought, ‘Okay, good. That’s why they needed me here.’”
“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t even whisper this, but organ donation is a thing. Had she died in the accident, they could have harvested a lot more from her body and saved a great deal more people.”
My mouth hung open.
“I know, gruesome.”
“Totally. And yet, you’re right. It hadn’t occurred to me. Wow. I hope that doesn’t occur to her either.”
This was nice, hanging out in the kitchen with Striker.
But I needed to get up the courage to tell him what I’d done. Or, more precisely, what I didn’t do. I hated it when I failed him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Striker strode through the living room, opening the door to find Kate standing on the porch with Little Guy.
I had followed along behind, peeking around Striker’s broad shoulders.
Little Guy was mewling and rubbing his head into the crook of Kate’s neck.
“I thought I could get him to sleep before I handed him over.” Her words formed an unnecessary apology. “Sorry, he’s had a rough day. He just cut a new tooth.”
“Aw, poor little thing.” I reached for him, all snuggly and warm. “No worries at all. I love rocking babies.”
Kate set the diaper bag inside the door. “If you need anything for him, you have a key. Just help yourself.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll be home around eleven. I’ll come pick him up. I’m not yet ready to be away from him overnight, even if I know he’s right next door.”
“I totally get that.”
Kate put her hand on Little Guy’s back and looked like the last thing she wanted to do was leave.
“I’ll take excellent care. I promise.” I sent her a warm smile, hoping to ease her angst.
Reaper was on the porch behind her now. His eyes got warm and crinkly as he watched his wife’s conflicted emotions. “Kate? Lexi has this. We can go enjoy ourselves.”
Kate frowned and nodded, then turned and left with a backward wave.
I sat in my rocking chair, snuggling the baby into my chest, rhythmically patting his back. Bolero played on my sound system. I rocked with the beat, closing my eyes, letting stress just wash away.
Babies were magical.
I continued to rock long past Little Guy falling asleep.
I heard Striker come in and sit on the couch. I could feel his energy reaching out with curiosity and…stress. Yeah, well, I’d left the pregnancy test on the sink for him to see.
I opened my eyes. Striker held the plastic test in his hand. “Can we talk about this?”
Gesturing lamely toward the stick, I said, “I’m not pregnant.” I needed to own up to my infraction with Striker.
“I see that.” He stared down at the single pink line. “But you thought you might be?”
“I have to apologize. I didn’t take the pill this month. It was unconscious. I just…don’t know. I didn’t see them. It didn’t occur to me.” So very lame.
Striker nodded slowly. “We want kids.”
“Yes.”
“We decided to wait five years. Give your body a chance to recoup from all the things that have happened these last couple of years.”
I rolled my lips in and nodded.
“I want to be a dad when it’s safe for you. And when we feel the time is right.”
I nodded some more. Man, guilt was a painful mantle to wear. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
His gaze caught mine. “Are you ready to be pregnant?”
“No.”
Striker waited.
“Are you?”
“I’m looking forward to being a dad. I’m looking forward to your being pregnant. But I’m not going to rush you into anything. You have to decide when you’re ready. That’s body, mind, and spirit. I’d prefer that it was a planned pregnancy and not a mistake.”
“I’m sorry.” My focus was on the floor, contrite.
“No need for sorries, Lexi. None. I just want to be on the same page with you.”
“I made an appointment with the GYN. If you’d please wear a condom until I get a prescription for a no-brainer method...” I lifted my hand from Little Guy to waggle in the air. “The ring or a patch or something.”
“Not a problem. I just want you safe, and,” he dipped his head to the side and sent me a full-dimpled grin that righted everything about this fiasco, “I want to make sure we get to keep our sex lives in overdrive.”
I affected a cheesy Parisian accent. “I want you to paint me like one of your French girls.”
Striker laughed. “Which movie was that?”
“Titanic, I think.”
“Wrong accent then.” He stood and strode the two steps to the rocking chair. He dropped a kiss onto the now sleeping Little Guy’s head then gave me a long, slow kiss that told me everything was calm between us. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to hit the gym down in your basement and take a shower before the invading horde gets here.”
“Enjoy.” I smiled. How did I get so lucky? In a sea of whitecaps and swells, he was always the miracle of calm and steady.
Little Guy made cooing noises, and his lips pulled back into a smile. “Milk dreams.”
Striker looked thoroughly charmed. He dropped a kiss into my hair. “When you’re ready, you’re going to be an amazing mother, Chica.”
“If we can ever get married.”
“We don’t have to be married to be parents.” He held up his hand. “I know it’s important to you. I think some of that importance is that the CIA made a mess of things.”
“Angel says he always thought he’d be dead pretty quickly, and it would never be a problem. That thought hurts. I want him alive and well and living his life not married to me, not lying to me, not putting me in line to commit crimes that I had no idea I was committing. Not being able to explain why we put off our wedding means people are speculating. Maybe we aren’t as in love as we said or as committed to each other.”
“Let them. What they think doesn’t count.”
“Still, I’m going to admit it, I’m a little jealous of Gator and Christen. I really hope they enjoy their new lives together. It just seems like our happily ever after keeps getting snatched away from us.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
This is Saturday
The next day, on the way to pick up Destiny from her shift at the diner, I drove a circuit.
It was a lifetime ago that I had been in this part of town. And every time I drove down the road, memories came up strong.
This morning, I pulled over in front of Hanasal’s house. This was the elite neighborhood for the uber-wealthy and not at all like the neighborhood just a few miles away where people led a life paycheck to paycheck.
A young mother came out of Hanasal’s house. She had two youngish kids with her dressed for soccer practice. Fobbing her way into a Subaru, she strapped the kids into their car seats.
As she drove by, she sent me a concerned look. It seemed to me, she was noting my license plate.
Cars like the one I was driving didn’t belong in this area. I wondered if she would call the police and ask them to check why I was parked there, staring at her house.
Still, I wanted to take this time to remember back to what had happened. It felt like there was something there. So
mething more.
Hanasal was dead. But that didn’t seem to have ended things. There was obviously a loose end that needed to be tied up. Why else would my parents be—yeah, I didn’t have the right word for this—haunting me?
Seven years.
It felt like panning for gold as I reached out my sieve, trying to discover the nugget that would solve the mystery:
After Dad’s death, Hanasal’s house wasn’t hard to find. Dad’s friend, Stan, didn’t mind giving me the address and the license plate number on the guy’s new car from the police database.
It hadn’t taken long for the diplomat to replace the car he’d totaled and move on. Hanasal didn’t get a scratch on him in the accident. I only got fifty stitches scattered around my body, and Dad got dead.
I hated Hanasal.
I hated that he had whistled as he climbed into his car as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Spyder had given me the directive not to act for a full day. I wouldn’t disrespect Spyder by lifting my Springfield and popping a hole in Hanasal’s head, though, man, it would have been so darned easy.
I’d waited.
Determined to figure out the best time and place for my retribution, I wasn’t going to add to Mom’s woes by having her see me in handcuffs. Besides, I was better trained than that. Spyder took his mentorship very seriously. As did I. I meant to be the best of the best someday and protect my country.
Spyder didn’t hand out vague information. He spoke very little, and the things he said all had meaning. “It is a politicized world. That island has the potential to be of great importance to the United States, logistically.” What I heard him say was, don’t rock the boat by doing something overt.
I loved my country.
I wouldn’t want to do something that would cause our soldiers harm down the road.
So I had to be cunning.
Sitting outside of Hanasal’s house, I had chewed on the bone Spyder had given me: “That which is yours will not pass you by.” On the surface, it had to do with destiny and karma. Quickly, I could say it was Dad’s time to go, and karma would bite Hanasal for me—if not in this lifetime, then in the next. But Spyder never gave me a phrase that could be deciphered that easily. There was more meat on that bone, but my head wasn’t willing to be still enough for deep thoughts.